


so long to the headstrong

by murdur



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, references to mythology, these two are bad about emotional honesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/pseuds/murdur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The din of the skirmish seemed to distort in her ears, fading and wobbling as though she was hearing it from underwater. Sif watched his long form sway and then crumple to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so long to the headstrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rories/gifts).



> Merry Christmas rories! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to Danielle for looking this over on short notice, and to Jess for all the support.

Her double bladed sword crashed violently against the steel of the dagger, knocking it out of the dwarf’s hand as she planted her boot against his chest. She spun around, slicing her blade through flesh and growling in satisfaction.

It was meant to be a simple task really; travel to Svartálfaheimr to retrieve items commissioned by Odin and return home immediately. Neither Loki nor Sif could have predicted the calamity they currently faced.

Before they could return to Asgard with the treasures, they were forced to endure making the journey through a dark forest, the very sight of which had made Sif’s skin crawl. But there was no other space suitable that would safely transport them via the Bifrost than the large field that lay on the other side of the creaking trees from the blacksmiths’ dwellings.

The party of dwarves who had ambushed them within the depths of the forest, demanding a part of the Asgardians' horde could not be reasoned with. In fact, they seemed to only grow increasingly offended and incensed at Loki’s thinly veiled threats and instructions to leave. She had rolled her eyes as she pulled her sword from her back, not missing the mischievous sparkle in the prince’s eye. 

She always enjoyed fighting with Loki at her side. Perhaps even more so since the beginning of their dalliance a century or two before. She felt more aware of his presence, as if her body was cognizant of his.

If her own blood did not sing with joy at the rush of a fight, she would be satisfied to spend her time watching the dark prince gracefully maneuver each challenger. His style was elegance but few could deny the danger of his spells and knives, the way his body would strike out, whiplike, in a flash of magic and steel.

As she pulled her blade free from the chest of her attacker, she turned towards the prince with a smile. It was soon wiped from her face however, when she witnessed him summon magic enough to blow down the four dwarves charging towards his front, completely missing the axe wielder’s ambush from behind.

The triumphant smile lingered on his face for a long moment before it broke with pain at the dwarf’s axe embedded in his side. Sif watched his long form sway and then crumple to the ground.

The din of the skirmish seemed to distort in her ears, fading and wobbling as though she was hearing it from underwater. Her entire world seemed to screech to a halt for a few breathless seconds. She watched the cowardly dwarf slowly raise a foot before placing it on Loki’s arm. A sickening sound, Sif heard a bone snap and Loki howled in agony.

Time seemed to rush forward at that, breaking through her lapse. Everything was a blur. Sif spun her sword staff in her hands, unlocking it at the center to hold two separate blades in her hands. With a blind fury and rage, the warrior worked through the dwarves cutting down all before her. 

She crossed to him when no more dwarves were left standing, dropped next to his long body. Her heart pounded with fear. He was so very pale and his breath came in ragged gasps. Sif felt nauseous at the sight, dread tightening her throat. Why should she feel like this? She was no stranger to mortal wounds. She was War. Many men had fallen before her, at her side. 

But this was not just any man.

His long hands hovered over the head of the small axe before he wrenched it free, crying out in pain.

“Oh no, you fool,” she cried. “What have you done, what have you done?” Her distress rose as blood began to spill from the open gash below his ribs at an alarming rate.

“Oh,” he answered, his face growing impossibly whiter.

She lifted his useful arm and pressed his hand tightly against the wound, attempting to stem the hot flow. Red blood seeped between his pale fingers.

“Push,” she instructed in a voice that was surprisingly stable before rising to her feet.

Desperately she searched through the bodies of the fallen dwarves for something useful, casting aside blades and trinkets and treasures. Until she came upon a small pouch containing three long needles and a spool of black thread. She could have laughed at the dark irony of it if her heart was not choking her throat.

With shaking hands she fumbled the thread towards the eye of a needle as she knelt above him.

“Perhaps you shouldn't have skipped so many of your sewing and weaving classes as a girl,” he gasped, eyeing the needle as Sif missed her target for the third time.

“Don’t speak,” she spoke sharply. “Or I will use this on your lips. And I don’t think that’s an experience you wish to repeat.”

Loki laughed short and sharp and Sif felt the hysterical edge within her soothed for a moment. This was familiar. This was _them_. She clung to it.

Pushing the needle through the tattered edges of his side, Sif pulled the skin closed. His blood spilled hot over her trembling hands, making the needle slick and mean. Each time she plunged the needle anew, Loki whimpered and writhed. His blood painted the dirt beneath him a dark black. Halfway through the task he lost consciousness. Panic attempting to overwhelm her, she continued on and stitched him closed with an inelegant seam.

Looking around her, Sif deduced that she was still about an hour’s journey away from the edge of the forest, longer with Loki on her back. She didn’t know if he had enough time to survive such a journey. The idea brought bile rising to the back of her throat and she hurried to lift his limp form across her shoulders before taking off at a sprint through the forest, leaving all other treasures behind, her dark hair streaming behind them and prayers falling from her lips.

 

 

Loki blinked, and cursed under his breath at the bright white and gold that flooded his vision. The morning sun shined through large windows of the healing rooms and he groaned. He attempted to lift a hand to his pounding head but it raised only a few inches off the the bed before flopping uselessly back to the white sheets. 

As though it was far away, he heard heavy footfalls approaching and felt the mattress dip near his hip with the weight of a person. He blinked his eyes open again and saw Sif leaning over him, her hands fluttering over his chest.

“Wharyoudoin?” he mumbled, trying to shake the pull of sleep from his eyes and his heavy tongue.

“Loki?” her voice sounded bafflingly anxious. “You are in the healing rooms. Try to relax.”

“Where is Eir?” he wondered. 

“Sleeping, I suppose. She and your mother have been working for some time. They took leave a few hours ago to rest.”

“Why are _you_ here?” he blurted, rolling his head to look at her. Sif looked startled and something passed across her face that Loki chose not to place in his tiredness.

“I...wished to stay with you after,” she spoke to the fidgeting hands in her lap. “After our encounter.”

He looked at her more fully then, feeling himself gaining his facilities. She was still dressed in her travelling clothes and blood and dirt spattered her cheeks. “Yes, speaking of dwarves, you still smell of their stench.”

“I look better than you. Now drink,” she lifted a goblet to his lips.

“I’m _fine_.” He protested.

“You are _not_ fine.” She growled. “You nearly...you nearly lost all of the blood in your body.”

“Yes well, thanks to the delicate stitch of the Lady Sif, I survived. I don’t need your further assistance.”

“I want to give it,” her voice was harsh as she crashed the goblet back down. Sounded almost desperate. It gave Loki pause. Not that he didn’t wish for his lover by his side, but he felt rather foolish to be seen as helpless in her presence. He did _so_ hate to display weakness. He sighed dramatically.

“As you wish,” he exhaled. The prince planted his hands against the bed and pushed up to lift himself to sit against the large pillows resting against the headboard of the small bed. He gasped in pain, pulling his arm to his chest. 

Reaching forward, Sif gingerly took his hand and pulled it towards her. She pushed the sleeve of his tunic up to reveal the pale expanse of his forearm. The skin was a sickly purple and green bruise, with a large lump bulging under the skin where his snapped radius was protruding.

Laying his arm down across her lap, she reached for a healing stone sitting on the bedside table. Her brow wrinkled in determination as she crushed the stone into a fine powder to coat his arm. The shieldmaiden rubbed the powder into his skin with enough force that he was certain she would rebreak the bone.

He grunted. “You would make a horrible healer.”

“Hush,” she snapped, but moved with a gentler touch.

“An awful bedside manner,” he commented, “your hands are rough from training, and your field surgery leaves something to be desired.”

“Ah, insults,” she muttered casually, but her eyes shone wet with something else. “You must be feeling better.”

“It appears that I am cursed to endure shoddy sewing jobs on each visit to that forsaken realm,” he complained. She had finished with the stone but still held his hand in both of hers on her lap.

“You have horrible luck with dwarves,” she laughed, but it came out a sob.

Her face was pain before she turned it from him and Loki startled. It was not like the great warrior Sif to sit weeping at a comrade’s bedside. All of his clever words sat heavy on his tongue, useless. His chest burned hot and his gut churned at the sight of her misery, and he found he hated the thought of her sadness. 

“Sif,” he breathed quietly, squeezing his fingers against hers. She dropped her head and lifted his hand to her mouth. One by one, she kissed his fingertips.

“I thought you were going to leave me,” she whispered and pressed his palm to her lips, eyes fluttering closed.

It felt as if a great weight sat upon her chest. She felt stupid and exposed. This thing between them was unnamed and unacknowledged. She couldn’t recall when her affection had grown, had no awareness of it before. Yet here she was heartsick and weeping, worse than any confession.

She let out a sigh when he moved his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb sweeping away a traitorous tear with a tender touch. Her chest ached.

“I have no such plans,” he murmured. “Not today. Not tomorrow. I’m afraid you shall be burdened with my insufferable presence for centuries to come.”

Sif laughed. She turned her head and brushed her lips across the delicate skin of his wrist. “No more death scares please.”

“I can promise no such thing.” Loki straightened his shoulders. “Where is the fun in that? Every relationship could use a little excitement.”

“You are a fool,” her sigh was fond.

He smiled and slid his hand to her nape, pulling her face to his. “Yes,” he smirked against her lips before kissing her thoroughly.


End file.
